


Untitled

by Claudia_Holt



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anti-Hero, Demons, Eventual Romance, Fate & Destiny, Fire Powers, Friendship, Illustrations, Insomnia, M/M, Magic, Mental Health Issues, Modern Era, Mystery, Original Character(s), Original Fiction, Romance, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Sleepwalking, Supernatural Elements, Suspense, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-02-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 07:52:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17442899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Claudia_Holt/pseuds/Claudia_Holt
Summary: Updates 3rd Sunday of Every MonthDiamond in the rough Ricky has had his life interrupted by a series of strange coincidences that are out of his control. Unable to sleep or see reality clearly, destiny takes a hold of his future. His struggle will bring together an unlikely ally and corrupted soul to wage war over his mortal body.





	1. The Murk

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a work in progress. Updates will be posted on the 3rd Sunday of every month. Comments and kudos are always appreciated, they literally fuel my work.

.•:*¨¨*:•. O N E .•:*¨¨*:•.

 

The soft rain fell gently on his upturned face. The water droplets ran down his forehead and into his eyes... but it was like it was happening to someone else. Someone far away… The mist between his mind and physical form was thick, and as he slowly pushed his way through to consciousness, he could feel the haze of his mind leaving. Slowly becoming aware. 

A car cut through a rain puddle on a nearby street and the sounds of the displaced water were a gentle undertone in the night. The cool breeze pushed itself against his skin and he shivered. 

He watched his own reflection in the store’s glass window before him as he lifted his hands up to cover the bare skin of his arms. The goose bumps he found felt like sandpaper and his hands like ice. 

As he stared into the mirror image of his body, the hollowness of his own eyes reiterated the reality of many sleepless nights. Reaching a numb hand up, Ricky slowly wiped the rain droplets from his face. He let his hands linger down his cheek, the creases in his pale skin reflecting the shadows of a nearby street light.

The short sleeved white t-shirt he had worn going to bed was mostly a soaked and translucent cloth barely covering his torso. The small holes in the fabric were stretching with the new weight of the water, and his dark body hair was clearly visible beneath. On his legs, tattered dark blue sweatpants hung off of his hips. The water hand not only landed on top of them, but cuffs had mopped up water from the puddles his feet had trudged through. Presumably all night. 

It had happened again, and this time a small antique shop was the silent witness. 

Ricky’s body was slowly deteriorating because of the sleep walking. He had lost weight, until all of his clothes had started to hang off of him. He could barely recognize himself anymore, and as his mind went with less and less sleep, his thoughts changed.

It was like his mind was feeding him false information. Apparitions would dart from his perspective, benches would temporarily turn into crouching giants, and voices would shout things at him or at each other. It was too much.

Ricky was barely holding down his gas station job and this new illness that ailed him… he was worried that it truly was a disease of the mind. One that he soon would not be able to combat. 

When it first started happening it had felt relatively innocent. It began with him waking up in the run down front yard… and then down the street… then he started finding himself five blocks away in the downtown area.

From there, it had only gotten worse. 

This current moment was the fourth time in the past week that he had woken up someplace strange and unfamiliar. The walking was becoming more erratic, and the distance was becoming greater each time. 

Blowing into his hands, hoping to transfer a little more heat to his skin. He then left his reflection and backed a up a handful of steps to try and get his bearings. 

The world around him felt like it was somehow different. Looking at his surroundings, he processed a world around him that had not changed. The physical nature was the same, but how he perceived it was now new and alien. 

After a few moments, Ricky was able to groggily process his location. He recognized signs, buildings and then names. After adding up the information, he slowly began to approximate his location. He gathered that he was about an hour walk away from the small, ramshackle building that he called home. He sighed… he was too exhausted for this shit.

Pressing his fingertips into his skin again, the sensation served as a reminder of the reality that his body was anchored in. Feeling the weight of the unknown, Ricky would have sworn that he could feel tiny claws climbing onto his shoulders and digging in. Neurotically wiping against his upper back, Ricky willed himself to pay attention. He had to get home and off the streets.

Large old homes that no one could afford anymore were converted into small, struggling businesses that filled the square. A few streets away, mansions of the past fell into disrepair to provide shelter for the unlucky and deranged. This was the up and coming area he was born into and would die in, just like every other unlucky soul that failed the life lottery.

Pushing his cold body forward, he finally began the trek home, thankful for the zip tie clutching his double laced knots.

The sleeping version of him had a tendency to make life as difficult as possible. In the past, locked doors had been forced open, shoes ripped off and left abandoned and of course the disregard for the current weather patterns..

Despite the fact that he could still will his body to move, he felt like a zombie. Cold and dead, his skin was clammy and his body lacked the energy for anymore shivering. He wondered at this point if he should go to the doctor, or if they could even help him.

Stopping at the crosswalk, looking around to see if any one was there, the early morning had left the old city a ghost town. A few dim lights reflected on the wet ground and besides for a few cars he heard in the distance, he was free to walk across the road at his own pace. 

Exhaustion tugged on his eyelids and pulled on his legs. Living on the outskirts of the small city, he wondered if the sun would be up by the time he arrived home. Even the blackout curtains could not help him then.

Ricky had always had problems sleeping, but the walking was something life altering and strange. It had begun to break him down, and the more he thought about it, the more he had no idea where it had come from or how it had gotten this out of hand.

Trudging through the rainy night alone, stranded dogs barked from old front lawns and stray cats clung to the shadows as their eyes flashed at his figure walking by. His only companions were the continued echos from his foot falls and a symphony of distorted sounds chorusing through the night. 

Being alone was nothing new to Ricky. It had always been so and it seemed to be the story of his life. As the years went by, he had tried to fight it, tried to put himself ‘out there’ with his peers, but it had never really worked. It was like they could see that glaring broken piece of machinery inside of him, hitching on that same cog over and over again.

He was broken, and he had been since day one.

Ricky had ever had what you would call fortuitous life events. His dad had been a one and done kind of guy, and his mom never really wanted to be a parent. Before long in his life, he had been passed into a crowded foster home. 

While he was too young to remember the details of his temporary home, mostly he just knew that he was just one of many in a small one story ranch. Shortly after his mom has lost custody due to neglect, his grandmother came to collect him.

He could still smell the scent of cigarettes that perpetually clung to her clothes as he remembered taking her hand. She was unfamiliar to him then, but her old face reminded him of the mother he did not know he was even missing.

She had lived in an old rundown house with two bedrooms, one bath and a tiny kitchen. Everything in the kitchen seemed to be an old, yellowed color, even the yellow light was usually flickering. His grandmother had made him traditionally yellow things like mac and cheese, grilled cheese and mashed potatoes with cheese. She was a woman who believed in the strength of dairy.

Thus Ricky had grown up drinking milk at every meal, only now he could not stand the stuff. His memories of life had soured, and his taste for milk and it’s products along with it. 

In his memories she was always an elderly woman, and now, after her death, there were certain things to him that held memories of her. He was reminded of the pale pink bathrobe that she wore for so many years. It’s plush fabric had long since lost it’s soft nature, but he still had it, at home tucked away. More than anything, that is what he wanted in the cool night. Not just her robe, but her.

He was 17 when he had found her dead. It had been a Saturday morning, and that particular morning, he was sleeping in. Ricky was graduating high school soon, with the large world before him and a sick sense that he had nothing in life that made him special.

It was not his relationship with his grandmother that made him feel like this. In fact, even though she had a hard nature, she had never told him that he could not do something. When he had expressed unachievable dreams with her, she had nodded and listened. Inhailing and exhaling the smoke from her Virgina Slim, she would look at him and smile when he stopped. 

She was listening, but he had been able to sense something. Something about her. It wasn’t until later that he realized what he was sensing was that she had never had a choice. She was born in a different time, in a different place. That was a shadow over her constantly, and she was the type of woman who believed that we are tied to circumstance. 

That our fate controls us and our opportunities. 

It was that very real dissonance that convinced him to believe her. His parents were losers, school was a glorified battle ground and the only person who meant anything to him in this life was living on a fixed income in a small, old house . The repairs were piling up and the bills were always past due. He was just another human trapped by his fate and locked in by his own circumstances.

That Saturday morning, when he entered her room, he could immediately smell in the stale air that she was dead. 

It was not yet a powerful smell, but it was one that he knew would grow with time. The gas hung in the room, surrounding her pale and stiff form. He knew she was not sleeping. Her mouth was locked open, gaping wide with a look of fear. In her last moments, she had been alone and frightened of death, and Ricky had only been one room away.

It was then that he accepted his place in reality.  
Life was not beautiful or fair.  
It was continual and unpredictable suffering.

It was days later that the doctors told him it was a stroke. Combined with her years of smoking and dairy, her arteries had clogged up, right into her brain. They tried to tell him that there was nothing he could have done, but it left the teenager no solace. 

Ricky had been left her meager life’s possessions, including the small home and everything in it. He remembered being alone and heartbroken. The small town lawyer attempted to console him by sitting close and reaching out a hand to pat his heaving back. The connection was awkward, but it was the only gesture of consolation that he was to receive. 

His tears were not just because he missed his grandmother, but for the finality of everything. This was it. She was dead and he would never see her again.

She had already paid for an economical cremation, with the desire to be scattered across their shared property. In reality, though, he had just ended up keeping her. Even in her death, she was the only person he had. He greeted her in the morning and before he went to bed. He spent his evenings chatting with her, letting the lack of response be filled by a dim echo of her voice in his head. 

He missed her so much, and in the preceding seventeen years the pain had not left him. He had nothing to fill the hole she had left, so it stayed baren and open. 

Sighing, he pushed his wet, dark hair out of his face. The night was not a great time for memories. He could feel his past sucking him in, replaying events that he wished he could forget. 

After walking for what seemed like eternity, deep in a fugue, Ricky finally arrived at the dilapidated street he called home. All of the lawns were rife with weeds and overgrown wrought iron fences. These people were in the same situation as him: just barely making it, and ignoring their surrounding reality to try and make life a less painful experience. 

Tucked off of the crumbling sidewalk, the home he had been left was rife with cracks and crumbling bricks. One story, with a closed floor plan and no ductwork. 

Walking up the once concrete path to the distressed door, a dim early morning had now come upon him. Fantasizing about collapsing into nothingness despite the coming daylight, Ricky was unsurprised to see the door slightly ajar.

Pushing the splintered wooden entryway open, Ricky bitterly mused at the level of shit his unwaking form could leave him to handle. Sleeping Ricky seemed to have all the capability to unlock the door, by when it came to locking it behind him, he fucking sucked.

Inside, the tiny abode was dark and silent. There was no humm of the baseboard furnace and the usually noisy fridge was dead silent. Holding his breath, he reached out and flipped the closest light switch within arms reach. His stomach sank into his abdomen. Nothing came on. There was no electric. 

Briefly losing control of himself he slammed warped door behind him out of frustration and desperation. Hitting the frame, the wooden door cracked and door bounced back, almost as if it was mocking him for losing his temper. Ricky wanted to kick it down. 

He knew he had been juggling bills, but he had not known he was this close… Slamming the door closed behind him again and latching it shut, he didn't even check for intruders. He didn't care.

The main room was small, dim and was the largest space in the home. To his right, an old futon lay open, it’s crumpled bedding and piled pillows echoed the rest of the interior. The blinds over the few windows were stained and bent, the worn down carpet barely had kept it’s color, now defaulting to more of a grey brown than a tan. 

On the old mantle that had once heated the house, the ashes of Ricky’s grandmother sat in a modest cloth sack next to a few worn pictures of her propped against the painted brick. He nodded hello to her.

To his left was the painfully small kitchen, complete with the same small table that he had sat at so many times before, but the good memories lay hidden in his mind. The table was now covered with papers, empty jars, books, boxed food and a small cup filled with thick, moldy coffee.

The stove was left with a dirty pizza pan and the small cabinets were filed with spoiled food. The fridge was not any better. On the outside, the stains and discoloration had left nothing on the inside to imagination. It was much the same. 

Collapsing onto his hard futon, still wet from the rain, he did not even bother to strip out of his wet clothes. He could feel the water seeping into the material beneath him, but the only energy he could muster was barely enough to close his eye lids. 

He sighed. 

The small home was silent all around him, only being briefly punctured by sounds outside. The occasional bird chirp, a rumble of thunder, the soft tap of the rain. Before long, his brow became less furrowed, his eyes relaxed and his mind wandered as he finally fell into what would be a restless sleep.

\---

He was dreaming. It was something that Ricky was keenly aware of. 

In dreams, reality flows. It’s changing, merging, and shifting, like the darkness around him did now. It was thicker than just the absence of light, thicker than fog. It damply brushed against his naked skin and pushed his black hair around.

He sat in his dream, transfixed by what was in front of him. 

It was an old man. He sat in an oak chair, hands on his knees, prostrate like some old egyptian god. His eyes were grey, like two grey disks, suspended where his eyes should be. In the darkness, they almost glowed.. 

Ricky sat in an identical chair across from him, his hands on his legs as well, in a position that was impossible to budge from. He tried to will his eyes to look away, to move his head, but it was like he was a statue. Frozen, eyes locked onto those surreal grey discs. 

He tried to open his mouth, to verbalise, but his voice caught deep in his throat and no sound would come out. He could feel the panic rising in his chest as he was desperate to say something, anything. 

Ricky felt like every inch of his body was being examined by the eyes before him and more hidden in the darkness. They combed every inch of his skin, and he felt the overwhelming sensation of a breath at his ear.

Instead of accompanying words, the breath entered his ear canal, filling up the space with a presence that was able to see inside him. Inside his mind, inside of his memories. 

Images flashed in front of his perception, images he thought that he had lost long ago, but were now being pulled into the forefront of his mind with such violent clarity that every ounce of him wanted to scream, but no matter how hard he tried, the sound would not leave his mouth.

With every heave of his lungs, Ricky was terrified at his inability to stop the invasion happening in his own brain. He could not move, could not wake, and for what seemed like an eon, he was subjected to the invasions of those grey discs, hovering before him, knowing every intimate thought and desire his damaged brain had ever dreamed of.

\---

It was not until hours later that the torture ended. Ricky awoke gasping, his chest heaving as he jumped out of bed. He still wore the damp clothes that he collapsed in, shoes even still zip tied to his feet.

It felt like he had a run a marathon, his heart pounding and his breath never seeming to fill up his lungs. Ricky paced, gripping his sparse hair, trying to make sense of what just happened to him.

Had anything happened to him?

If felt real and unreal at the same time. His grip on existence was already tenuous, but now he was not sure if there was anything left. It was just a dream, he tried to convince himself, but even he did not truly believe that. 

Outside, late afternoon had set in. The fading light fell across his legs as he made his way repeatedly around the small room. Reality was a tenuous thing, and greater minds than Ricky’s own had doubted it’s very existence. 

Right now, more than anything, he needed an anchor to this world. Something real, something tangible. In his small reality, it seemed that everything was crumbling around him. 

Making his way once again over the threadbare carpet, he tried to rein in his thoughts. Looking desperately about him, his eyes finally landed on something he could understand, something that he knew to be objectively real: his battery operated clock. 

The black hands were harsh against the plastic white face. It would tell him was time it was, to the second. It would be the item that grounded him in reality.

Staring blankly, he analyzed the clock hands that kept track of his life. It was 5:45 pm.

It was then that he realized that he was not only losing his mind, but that he was going to be late.

Immediately pulling off his shirt, he preceded to strip in the small living space he kept as his own. Naked, he rifled through the piles of clothes strewn about the room. None of his uniforms were clean. 

He wore a garish combo of red and black for a uniform, making Ricky feel like a child. He found a pair of black pants, wrinkled but not stained. Pulling them on, he buckled his belt and splashed water on his face and wet his hair..

Grabbing his black work shoes, he hastily put them on, and grabbed a waterproof windbreaker in case it decided to rain again. 

It was times like these that he wished the old ‘98 worked. The Honda had gotten him through some rough times, but after the water cooler had broken, he had not had the money to fix it up yet. For now, he was still limited to the bicycle he had leaning in his doorway.

He had not bothered to look in the mirror. He knew who he was, he knew what he looked like. 

Ricky stood a max 5’3”, and his stature was who he was. He was never allowed to forget it. His hair was almost black and receding but the thick cowlicks hid some of the rougher spots. His eyes were a stormy grey but the bags beneath them were even darker. His beard was not long, but it was not trim, growing onto his cheeks and down onto his neck. 

He had a square face, wide mouth and slightly upturned nose. He looked like a criminal, or a drug dealer. He never had been, but others always told him that. Maybe it was just the area.

Grabbing his hand-me-down bike, he pulled it out onto his front porch while locking the door behind him. Carrying it’s aluminum body down the handful of stairs, he leaped on its seat. 

Forcing his legs to shake of the stiffness they felt, he put all of his dwindling energy into pumping his body across the concrete. 

It was already early evening again, so there were quite a few people out on the sidewalk. Ricky weaved in and out of them, trying not to break his momentum. The station was not horribly far, but it would still take him a solid twenty-five minutes without any stops.. 

Alreadying beginning to huff, the lanyard around his neck beat into his chest with every downward stroke. His main objective was to get to work as fast as he could, but his body just did not seem to have anything left in it today. 

Just past his 34th birthday, Ricky had never felt a ton of energy. Even in his youth, his favorite activity had been simply existing. Staring off into world that eased his troubled mind, the glare of the old TV was some of the only light that had touched him.

As he forced himself into the momentum of pedaling, the homes and streets went by around him. The trees were just a blur, and the street lights still had a few hours until they came on. Traffic was not outrageous, but Ricky tried to stay on the sidewalk when possible. 

The walk signs were all in his favor as he passed each intersection, gliding across the two lanes, cars stopping on each side, yielding to his right of way.. 

He could see the gas station in the distance, now. The mile or so had forced its way into his life, but at least the early evening was still relatively cool. Ricky had only broken out in a light sweat, and his lungs had seemed to find themselves, even if his energy had stayed flat.

Coming up on another intersection, he glanced to the left, and then to the right as the white walk light beckoned across the street. As he began to cross his peripheral vision overrode his mind just in time to see a black jeep come to a screeching halt- hitting his bike firmly enough to send Ricky falling to the ground.

His body connected hard with the blacktop, and his first fear was a broken bone on top of everything else that was happening in his life. His left shoulder and his arm had taken most of the force, but the left side of his hip also jolted with pain.

Fuck, of all the things that could happen to him… He was already late, his life was a cesspool, he felt like he had not slept in weeks and now he was hit by some privileged ass wipe in a $60,000 car.

Gritting his teeth through the pain, he forced himself to sit up. He could feel his skin raw with road rash underneath his uniform, burning like he had bumped into hot iron. Glaring up at the vehicle, Ricky felt nothing but contempt for the driver who was now exiting with a look of what Ricky interpreted as concern for the possible repercussions.

The man was around the same age as Ricky, his trendy blonde hair disheveled with bangs hanging across his forehead. He moved down to crouch next to him, reaching a hand out to both help him up and to cover his own ass.

“Do-Don’t touch me!” Ricky growled, scrambling to stand, forcing himself to reject any pain that his body was demanding he not ignore. He had to get up on his own, he didn’t want help and he sure as fuck did not want false pity. 

The man looked confused, but it only gave Ricky a sense that he was winning. What kind of human thought Ricky would accept help after he tried to run him down?

He didn’t want or need anyone's help. He had made it this far on his own and he would be damned if he gave this fucker any satisfaction after what he had done due to sheer negligence.

Grabbing his bike, he jumped onto it before turning to the driver. The blonde’s expression was one of surprise, but Ricky took the opportunity to create the largest loogie he could muster, spitting it directly at his face. The pain in his arm fueled his getaway, and the idea of stranger with snot in his eyes elicited a laugh from the bottom of his soul.

God only knew what time it was now, though. He didn’t have time for this shit.


	2. The Mud

.•:*¨¨*:•. T W O .•:*¨¨*:•.

 

Trenton could feel his mother's eyes on him without even looking up. As he gazed at the plate placed before him, he realized that what should have been making his mouth water, was only putting him off. Laying down his fork, the metal softly chimed against the porcelain dish it touched. 

His mother’s gaze had always had a way of looking right through him, like her eyes were piercing into his soul. He knew, though, that it was impossible for it to be true. No one could know everything.

She was an older woman, and the lines that spread like a spider web around her lips made her look even more stern than she was. If that was even possible. When her head shook with disapproval, her lobes swung back and forth under the weight of her heavy pearl earrings. 

Trenton and his mom were not the only ones seated at the table, under the pretense of enjoying a family meal. The traditional spread of turkey, mashed potatoes and sides was supposed to be warming. The warmth instead ended up being stifling. 

His father was there, facing his plate and picking at his food apathetically. He was always the one who took the back seat in these things. His mother high on the idea that she had some kind of authority over everyone around her. Avoiding conflict like it was an olympic sport, Trention’s dad was silent.

His sister, Amelia was on her new phone, the one with the better camera, the bigger screen and the latest features. She was transfixed by the illuminated LCD reflected in her eyes. The long, dirty blonde hair that piled onto her head was styled with a messy bun, and her brand name sweatshirt with the stretched collar hung loose over her shoulders.

No one was saying anything, but on the other hand, that was usually a good thing. Using his fork to shape the mashed potatoes on his plate, Trenton wondered how much longer visits with family were supposed to last.

“So what are you going to do now?” His mother’s voice cut through the silence of the meal. 

He could feel her trying to dissect any amount of information from him, furiously scraping for any inkling about the real reason he had moved back from upstate

Reaching up his hand, Trenton removed his brown frames and rubbed his temples. His blonde hair fell over his forehead with is stylish layered wave and fade. Even though his blue button up hand the first few buttons undone, he still was sweating under the heat of the lamp fixture above.

“Right now I have enough saved-up to rent an apartment for around two years while I work on my book.” He began what felt like a dissertation. “I plan on looking into a lot of the creepy stories around town, see if there is anything to them or not.” Putting his glasses back on, his family came back into focus. “I figured I would do some interviews, maybe even do a podcast to help promote myself and my book. Really, though, I just came back to write.”

His mother, his father, and his sister all looked at him, almost not believing. While it was true that Trenton had made a nice living doing marketing, it was not something that he found inherently fulfilling. If anything, the money had made that more apparent. 

His entire life, Trenton had always been clever, intelligent and humble. Something of a rare mix, so he was able to land a coveted internship and then a job at global company. After working hard and putting in his time for five years, he was promoted, allowing him to make more money then he rightly should have. What had been a long term goal for him was then accomplished. Living a life that he thought would have made him happy, he then knew that there had to be something more than just ‘this’.

Amelia had paused the tapping on her touch screen phone, but did not move to put it down. Her reply was a simple, “That sounds pretty lit..” before returning with ferocity to her followers.

Trenton’s father was also smiling but before he could reply, Trenton’s mother had a litany of questions. 

“How are you going to make money doing this?”

“What happened, I thought you were happy upstate?”

“Have you ever written anything in your life?”

“Do you think people will even care about those stories?”

It went on and on… He did not expect her to be thrilled with his decision and in fact he even expected this barrage of grievances. He waited and took a drink as she finished. Even then, as soon as he went to reply, she cut him off.

“How is this going to look on your resume, Trenton? Have you even thought about that?” 

“Mom, I am creating a tangible project. It’s not like I am not doing anything.”

Amelia sniggered and Trenton’s dad covered his mouth. It turned out to not really a good move for anyone, because his mother then blew up. Standing up so fast her chair fell down behind her, she threw her napkin right in her plate.

“I am obviously the only one who cares enough about Trenton to tell him that he is making a mistake. People work their entire lives to get a job like the one he had, and here he is- just throwing it away!” She gestured wildy at them with her hands.

“Honey, it is not like that. Be happy for our son-” Trenton’s dad started before his mom turned on him like a rattlesnake, looking for a bite.

“Of course YOU would say that! You still play at bars, expecting to be something!!” and with that, she turned and stormed out of the dining room and kitchen area, not to be seen for the rest of the night.

The kitchen table was silent, except for the sound of Amelia’s fingers on her touch screen phone... and a sigh coming from his father. He removed his silver glasses and rubbed his temples, much like Trenton had before.

“Let’s just enjoy this delicious meal before us,” His father eventually intoned, picking up his discarded silverware and cutting into the slice of turkey in front of him. “Your mother is a difficult woman sometimes, but means well, and damn can she cook.”

Personally, Trenton did not think it was a beneficial trade off.

\------

It was early evening by the time dinner had ended. Trenton’s father had done his best to lighten the mood while he and Amelia helped their dad clean the dishes and put away food. They occasionally talked, but overall his family was exactly as Trenton remembered them- dysfunctional.

Sighing, he leaned back into his seat, safe in the confines of his upscale black SUV. He sat there, soaking in the silence. 

While it was true that there was more to moving home than just his project, it was not a reason that he was ready to share with his parents. His mother had a way of prying information from his dad, and Trenton was not sure if Amelia could keep a secret. Either way, he was not chancing it.

Reaching into his pocket, he brought out his cell phone. It was not the newest, like his sister’s, but it still worked and functioned as he needed it too. He kept it turned off to not raise questions, and to have an invisible barrier between his life and the dysfunction of his family. He knew that any ping would wake his screen, and the picture on his lock would come to life with light.

He knew he should change it, but for some reason he could not bare to do so yet. He still wanted to look at their faces, frozen in happiness, lost in the past. 

The photo was of himself with another man. They were both smiling, Trenton’s mouth was broken into a huge grin and the other man’s head was pressed against his temple. 

He let his heart feel a dull ache as he placed his phone on sleep and set it on the passenger seat next to him. Turning on his car, he let the engine hum to life before he backed out onto the street. 

He knew that if he sat and thought about Will for too long, he would start to cry. He was the real reason Trenton was now working on his much daydreamed about personal project. He had to do something to get out of his head. He needed to build a new life after his heartbreak.

Will and he had met soon after Trenton had moved to the city to work full time at C&R. Trenton had needed a haircut on short notice, and Will just happened to have a last minute cancellation when he had come in requesting one.

True to his open nature, Will had offered T the appointment on the spot. Of course that could have been because Will had found him attractive as well, but Trenton would not have blamed him. He also was attracted to the stylist's perfectly tousled dark hair and three o’clock shadow.

They had chatted during the appointment and by the end, Will had given him his card. Trenton had held onto it for days. Repeatedly taking it out, looking over it and thinking back to their forty minutes of conversation. 

Eventually, he said ‘to hell with it’ and called Will up one evening a week after the casual encounter. He knew immediately who it was. “I was wondering when you would finally call!” He knowingly exclaimed. His openness with his emotions was something that made Trenton’s chest warm and before long, they were lost in the pleasure of conversation again.

Soon, they were an official item. Trenton felt like he had found his soul mate. When they slept together, holding each other at night, T could swear that he felt a physical connection between the two of them, anchoring their souls together… it felt so absolute, so final. 

That was why it was so hard when they broke up. 

Will had said that he wanted to see other people, and then it came out that he already had been. Trenton was devastated, and he wondered deep down if he could ever trust a man to be that close to him again. 

Will had moved out by the next week, living with his new boyfriend, high on the feeling of a new love, instead of low on a two year old one. Trenton did what he had to do to get through the week.

He replayed the lost relationship over and over in his mind as he drove along the dim streets, lost in his own thoughts. He tried to blame the apartment, that its memories were what made him move. When he had looked around, all he could see was a life that he had built with Will, and its constant reminder tormented him until he was not longer able to take it.

On the seat beside him, his phone suddenly broke his fuge by vibrating and waking in the dim light of the car's cab. It was a text message. Trenton sighed, thinking it was from Amelia or one of his parents. He was not wrong.

Lifting the device to his face, he let his peripheral vision take over watching the road in front of him. The message was from his Dad. Cutting across the picture of him and Will with his thumb, he opened the app to quickly read what was said.

“Your mother is really sorry,” it began, “She was just so upset because she was hoping that you had met someone in the big city. She just wants to see you married and happy.”

It was that last phrase, married and happy, the made him throw down the phone. Unfortunately, by that time, it was too little to late. His distraction cost him valuable seconds. His foot was delayed in hitting the brakes a fraction of a second too late. 

To his horror, Trenton had run a red light and went straight into the pedestrian crosswalk His heart jumped a mile into his his throat as he felt his SUV hit the flash of a bike, knocking it out of his line of vision.

His stomach twisted itself into a million different knots. He hoped to God that the person was not dead. If he was, it would have been all because of his own impatient stupidity, seizing the opportunity to look at at his damn phone.

Grabbing the door handle, he pushed open the the metal frame with his shoulder, promptly jumping out. In his mind’s eye, he was terrified at the vision of someone bloody and barely alive. He didn’t know if he could take it, but instead, just below his high beams, he was relieved to see what looked like a grown man still conscious.

He went to approach him, holding out a hand, feeling relief course through his soul. Trenton wanted to apologize with every fiber of his being, but what he intended was nothing like what ended up unfolding. 

The man before him was short, his dark and unruly hair complimented the attitude that seethed from his frame. Under heavy eyebrows, his grey eyes flashed as he snarled at Trenton’s advance. 

“Do-Don’t touch me!” the stranger almost shouted, scrambling to his feet against some sort of pain. Trenton was taken aback by the response, but failed to force himself to come to his senses and reply. Instead, he watched in shock as the man got onto his bike without so much a second thought to what had just happened.

Swallowing and gearing up to finally speak, his concern was met instead with the repulsive feeling of snot clinging to his brow immediately following a graphic guttural sound. 

“What the fuck!?” He involuntarily blurted while trying to wipe the phlegm off of his cheeks as quickly as possible. Using his sleeves to dry his forehead and glasses, he suppressed the temptation to scream at the man who was now half way down the street.

“Ug-gh!” He leapt in his suv and slammed the door behind him. Even after the disgusting situation, Trenton was more angry that he had hit someone in the first place. Maybe this was the universe’s way of warning him and giving him just deserts in the form of a loogie.

Cars had lined up behind him, and while some were already going around his vehicle, more were flashing their lights, signaling to him that they saw what happened. That he lucked out and should be moving on.

Shifting into drive, Trenton tried to breathe and soothe his heart rate into something more normal. Despite what he had thought was a thorough wiping, he realized that he still felt moist around his eyelids. 

\------

The ride had been grueling and the road rash from his arm was screaming, but Ricky had not stopped pedaling. Spitting in that guy’s face had been exhilarating, even though it might have been one of the dumbest thing he could have done. 

It had been a split second decision, and Ricky had never really been known for his tact. He wished now that he would have stayed and just gotten the man’s information so he could have at least gotten some cash out of it.

If he was being honest with himself, Ricky would admit that he had been ashamed. Ashamed of who he was which lead him to flee from the situation.

He just wanted to forget about it.

Pulling up to the gas and convenience store, Ricky lifted his left leg off of the bike. Pulling out his plastic cased chain, he locked his dented mode of transportation to a propane cage on the side of the store.

The world around him was a dark grey, so desaturated now that it almost seemed like a dull lilac. The dark colors were punctuated by the variety of head beams raking over the streets that spun a web around the store.

It made him reflect for a moment, on where he was, right now in life.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep sigh and walked through the sliding doors of the station. The fluorescent bulbs were an abrupt and jarring change from outside. The gas station smelled like coffee and someone cooking a to-go pizza in the oven behind the register.

Ricky was the evening manager here. Getting off at midnight had fit into his old sleep schedule, when his life was somewhat more normal. Because it had always been hard for him to get to sleep, coming in during the evening was an acceptable compromise..

The linolum below his feet was damp at the entrance from a mopping gone wrong. Grey footsteps lead off of the main track, and he followed a pair that lead to the back of the store.

As he entered the small back hallway, the smell of mildew with a hint of cheap cleaner hit the back his nose. Less than four feet away, the owner’s room was the only room lit up. The dingy artificial light from the windowless cell looked surreal, as was his the sound of his boss’s rustling coming from it.

“I’m here.” he announced more gruffly than he expected, coming into the owner’s line of vision. He leaned against the industrial metal door frame of her office, while a light sheen of sweat shone on his forehead from biking all the way here.

Amanda was his boss. She was a short woman, the same height as Ricky, with bleach blonde hair that was never fully blonde. Her face was squat and her crassness was only matched by her shrewd business sense. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” she threw at him, briefly halting her chewing on the cap of a red bic pen.

“I was hit by some ass-hat while biking in,” Ricky lifted up his jacket and his uniform shirt to show Amanda his injured side. Looking at it now, in the light, it was a shiny bright red. Amanda cringed. “I had to take the guy’s information...” It was only a half lie. “..It dented my bike too.” 

Allowing the events to slowly sink in, Amanda replied “I believe ya’” before nodding her understanding. The macabre scene across his stomach had convinced her. “That’s fucked up... You gonna sue him? You can probably get some cash from that.” she gestured at the small amounts of blood with a self manicured nail.

Ricky shrugged. “Sure, if I had the extra money to hire a lawyer laying around. While i’m at it, I’ll just ask the doctor to bill the dude.”

She snorted. They both knew that Ricky had no chance of that flying, but she was not going to be the one who offered a helping hand. Mulling something invisible in her mouth, she changed the subject.

It was a sign that he was not in trouble, which was lucky because with Amanda everything depended on her mood. Something could have nothing to do with you, but if you were in the vicinity, she pounced on the opportunity to chew someone out. After all, what makes a better victim than a desperate employee?

“Yeah....” Ricky broke the silence, to show the mutual understanding, “Just the usual deliveries tonight?”

Amanda shifted through some stained and crumpled papers on her desk.

“Yeah, the usual..” She leaned to one side behind the bent metal surface of her desk and brought out a liquor bottle with two shot glasses. One was noticeably cleaner than the other. She filled them both to the rim and handed the clean one to Ricky with a knowing smile. 

Ricky accepted the glass and clinked it with hers. It was the way they changed over shifts, and Ricky was pretty sure it did not include anyone else. He had wondered the reason for this ritual, but over time, he stopped worrying about it. They had an understanding.

The liquor felt hot against his throat but his face revealed that he enjoyed the pain. Ricky had gotten drunk many a night over shots of cheap spiced rum, deep in a self imposed exile after his grandmother’s death.

He would drink and drink, until he passed out, hoping to never wake up again.. Only to bolt awake with a splitting headache and worshiping the porcelain god. Hating himself and his life choices.

The small glasses clinked as they was returned to the desk’s surface, only for Amanda to fill them with another drink. “Listen,” she started. “There is going to be someone who comes by tonight to pick up some papers from my office.”

Ricky’s ears perked up at this, and he was now listening intently. This was certainly a different occurrence between them. “When they arrive, they are going to come in from the front. I want you direct them to come along the back and then unlock the delivery door. Then return to work. Can you do that?” She paused and looked at him.

Amanda’s expression was relaying to him that he only had the illusion of choice. Her eyes were hidden under an outcrop of shadow, and there was something that Ricky had never seen there before. He no longer knew where his standing was in her world. In that look that he knew there was so much more to Amanda than what he believed was there was previously.

He nervously broke her eye contact, concentrating on the amber liquid sloshing in his cup before knocking it back against his throat. Placing the now empty glass down before him, he looked into her eyes right back. “I can handle it,” he confirmed. 

There was silence between them after that. She had taken a gamble involving him in whatever was going on, and if he had not agreed, Ricky knew that she couldn’t have guaranteed that a place would have remained for him in her shitty establishment.

But she had judged correctly. She knew Ricky. She knew he had events going on that trapped him, and she was taking her turn to flex her authority.

\---

The evening so far had been quiet, despite a brief rush after the sun had set. For the most part, Ricky had been able to handle it. Just the usuals, getting beer or snacks, or sometime loitering around the coffee machine. As long as no one caused any trouble, he was relatively relaxed. 

Thinking back to the strange conversation he had had with the owner, he found himself repeatedly glancing at the clock. It was a simple white and black face, slowly ticking through the life that he sold for 12$/hr. 

Amanda had never had someone come by and pick up things on her behalf before.. Her stare and the second drink made him think that this event was something that he needed to keep his mouth shut about, which did not particularly make him feel at ease. 

He had always suspected that Amanda was into something illegal, but he could never have proved it. His attitude in life thus far had kept him out of jail, and it was an ideology of strictly dont ask and don’t tell. It struck him then that this might be the very type of attitude that she was banking on. 

He shrugged, either way that he looked at it, there was nothing he could do now. While he was nervous for whoever it was to come in, he was more so concerned with the future of his employment. Was she going to continue to leverage his person in the future? If so, he was not so sure that he wanted to be an accomplice to any crime, despite the schedule flexibility.

Behind the wide white counter, Ricky had spread out the contents of a blue tupperware container filled with tobacco inventory backstock. Single packs of cigarettes, colorful foil encased cigarillos and the odd vape disposable pen kit. It was a tedious job that required a decent stretch of time, so Ricky had waited until he was deep into his shift, a slow 11:30 pm. 

People were usually either enroute home or had already gone back to their night shift. Confident in the way that he had judged the ebbs and flows of the customers, Ricky could not help but jump a little at the hiss of the air displacement that signaled the doors sliding open. Looking up, he could see a customer sliding in.

His black hoodie made it hard to Ricky to recognize who or what he was as he approached the counter. Regardless, he did not have to wonder for long because within a moment, the man had brandished a handgun.

Ricky could feel his heart drop. Of all the ways to finally fucking die, he really did not think that this would have been the way he went. Numbly, he could hear the cigarettes he had been holding fall softly to the floor. 

Not bothering with the register, or the multitude of single cigarette packs that were free upon the floor, the stranger made only one demand. “Take me to the back room, and don’t fuck with be because i’ll kill you.” The voice flashed such a deep, raw ferocity that it was obvious that the man had killed before.

Frustrated at Ricky’s non moving form, the man shouted, “I am not fucking around!” before aiming the gun at the cigarette case behind him and pulling the trigger. It was a deafeningly loud sound that forced Ridky to physically jump. 

Bracing himself against the counter so as to not fall down, Ricky managed to nod and began to pull himself into position. He had to somehow lead the stranger into the back, past three racks of chips and a center aisle of machine icees, all rotating a colored freeze drink.

Even though things were unfolding differently than Amanda had described, Ricky wondered if this was what she had meant. Was she setting him up for a burglary gone wrong? He didn’t know, but her directions to him earlier in the night were too great a coincidence for him to ignore. 

Into the dark hallway, Ricky lead the man to Amanda’s back office. There, he was thrown to the ground in front of the safe. “Better cover your head,” the masked man laughed, aiming his gun now on the lock of the cheap metal safe. 

Pulling the trigger multiple times, Ricky had barely had time cover himself. When the flurry of gunfire was over, the lock was beeping its death throes, and the hot door had fallen unceremoniously on top of him. 

He could not suppress a shout as the hot metal burned his skin right through his clothes while his attacker laughed. Reaching over him and grabbing the contents of the safe, the thief threw the contents into a burlap bag. Hiding his face under under his crossed arms, Ricky moved his head barely an inch to sneak a look up.

The shadows on the wall played what looked like large filled Ziploc bags and stacks of bound bills being collected. Ironically for Amanda, of all things to cheap out on, he was surprised it was a safe for her bills and drugs.

It was then that blackness quickly engulfed him.


	3. The Book

Trenton stood outside the library which was located in the midst of the historic district of town. It was one of the older buildings, nestled in between two renovated brick faced stores. It’s old charm was distinctive amongst the modern street and sidewalk, hinting at what Trenton knew was a beautiful interior.

Approaching the large wooden doors, he looked at the worn and tarnished brass handles before grasping them and pulling. Briefly entertaining the thought of how many others had opened the door before him, and how much time changes everything. 

Inside the building, the distinct smell of paper and age filled his nostrils. He couldn't help but smile. Although it had been a while since he had come here, it was still full of fond memories. He used to beg his parents to drop him off here in the evenings, under the guise of homework and studies, but really it was for the novels.

He could picture his favorite large plush window bench still, tucked away from passerby behind the biography section. He wondered if it was still there?

Letting his eyes adjust to the light, he was happy to see that things had not changed too much. The floor was still a beautiful white marble, and the old oak desk was still straight ahead behind it. The iron staircase was still winding up along the corner to the second floor. 

It was an elated feeling that inflated his chest, seeing the building’s high ceilings welcoming him back. He used to know every aspect of the library, inside and out. Now, though, he was looking for something more than just an adventure. He was looking for information.

Approaching the antique reception desk. A younger girl looked at him through her rimmed glasses. Her eyes were bright, and her lenses reflected the computer screen tucked under the counter. “Hello! Is there anything I can help you find?” She asked, her voice slightly echoing despite her soft spoken manner.

Trenton smiled and loudly whispered back, “Hey, yes, actually I would like to look through the Microfices. Local history.” 

“We don’t get that many people asking for those things.” She chirped, pushing back her seat and standing up. “Are you looking for genealogy or property records?” Her flats barely made an echo as she lead him to the spiral staircase only a dozen feet away. She walked next to him, seemingly generally interested in his project.

“Actually I am looking for newspapers, preferably local. I’m interested particularly in the local rumors you hear growing up around here.” Her face did not reveal if she knew what he was talking about, so he tried elaborating. “You know...the deaths and the.. the hauntings.”

Her eyes flashed at that, but her smile never waivered. He wondered if she was holding something back. “Interesting! Well, there is plenty to look though, then. Are you open in terms of a time period?”

“Definitely. Specifically I am looking to keep it around the turn of the century, nothing too recent.”

“Well, we have plenty of that sort of thing. If you are open to a larger window of time, the 1920’s were really tumultuous in the area. Especially with the mob influences and the prohibition.” 

As they continued chatting, she lead Trenton up into the loft like second floor. Circling around each other multiple times before they came to the landing. 

Passing the tall bookshelves and ladders, to the farthest reaches of the upper floor, they entered a shaded area. There, there were three tall box monitors that almost looked like computers except for the knobs below the square screens. Both the large black plastic handles and tray below were the tell tale signs of the microfices. 

Leaning over, her hair fell over her shoulder as the librarian pressed an analog switch on the back of the monitor. A moment later, it roared to life to display a currently empty screen. 

“I will go grab you the newspaper films for the 1920’s. Let me know if you would like to see any other time frames.” she smiled and disappeared behind two large double doors. 

Trenton pulled out the chair in front of the desk. The dark wood of its body was smooth, and the maroon fabric covering the seats had a subtle pattern woven into them. Sitting there, he took the moment to look around the upper floor.

The black iron fence skirting the second floor hopefully separated the patrons from falling into the open air. Up here, the white marble continued, but large evergreen rugs helped with the dampening of sound. Some of the fabric was worn, but a lot of them retained a unique luster. It really was a beautiful building.  
Hearing a door open and close once again, the young librarian returned, holding a tray of glass plates. Setting them on on the desk, she showed him how to use the machine. Moving the plates slowly over the projector, and using the knobs to focus. After giving him the instructions, she left, and Trenton turned to the feast of knowledge before him. 

It was like seeing the newspapers as if they were in front of him. Spinning the knob, he started looking through the first issue, sliding the lense over the glass’s small photos. He could feel his heart skip a beat when one of the first articles he focused in on was one of murder.

The image featured was grainy, but Trenton could still clearly make out a man, face down in the cobblestone street that still existed today. The headline read, “Informant Shot Dead - Mob Suspected.” Pulling out a small moleskine notebook, Trenton scanned the article for the address, jotting down that along with the date and crime and slide number. 

He continued to scan and write down dates, locations and crimes for every story he saw. “Woman Found Dead - Suicide Suspected”, “Boy Discovered: Mutilated”, “Deaths Linked to Cult”. Trenton stopped at that last one. There was no photo, only a long, skinny column on an inside page that detailed a discovery on June 6th, 1921.

“Late Saturday night, authorities uncovered an underground den, filled with evidence of blood sacrifices. Human skulls discovered put the body countto at at least 10 confirmed. An 11th body was discovered dead, but police attribute it to a suicide. The approx 35 year old was a victim of a self inflicted knife wound, the weapon still inside his neck. The blade itself was never removed, the unholy markings on it convincing police to leave it be.”

Trenton was transfixed. The article did not share the location of the underground burrow, but from the context, Trenton could tell that it was inside the city. A week later, another small article referenced a road being shut down so the city could fill in the underground parlor of death. This time, the article had a small picture along side it. It was of a small black book. Underneath the image, the caption read, “Found on the body of the unknown male suicide, police are sharing that they found small book, bound in human flesh.”

The book looked innocuous, but there was something about the pitch black ink on the page that sucked Trenton in. It was then that he jumped at a woman’s voice behind him. “I’ve seen that book,” it wavered in a weak voice. 

Trenton felt like his heart had jumped out of his chest. Holding his hand against his pounding heart, he turned to see an older lady standing behind him. “You scared me!” He exclaimed, trying to laugh off the fright that he so obviously felt, but the woman’s face did not change. 

“I’ve seen that book,” She said again, and an eerie sensation flooded Trenton’s psyche. “It was at the Antique Store that I used to visit down on Elm, but the owner would never let me touch it.” As he listened to her, he knew that something did not feel right. There was something about the situation he pushed it to the back of his mind. Logic was telling him how lucky he was. He never would have dreamed of being able to have access to information like this. 

Turning to grab his field notes off the desk, he asked her the name of the store, and if it was still in business. Turning to a fresh page, he waited for a reply that did not come. Looking up, wondering if she had heard him, Trenton realized that the old woman had now vanished. 

He almost screamed. Instead he stood up and let his notebook and pencil fall to the ground. Looking around him, he hoped that she had just wandered off. He hoped that she was just a creepy old lady with dementia, but the more he searched the shelves of books and area around the microfiche, the more the reality dawned on him. She was nowhere to be found. 

\----------

Luckily there was, and had only been one store on Elm. Following the older woman’s story, he had looked up on Elm street on Google with his location preferences turned on. There were still a few properties still in business, and when he looked at the descriptions, he felt a jump in his chest. One of those was an antique shop. In business since the 50’s, it turned out to only be a handful of miles away.

Leaving the microfice faster than he thought humanly possible, Trenton clattered loudly down the stairs to the foyer. His abrupt change of attitude drew the attention of the woman had guided him before. 

“That was quick!” She seemed surprised. “Were you able to find what you needed?” Her face went from one of surprise into one of unease as she took in Trenton’s face. Something was clearly wrong. 

As he approached her, he said in a loud whisper, “I know this might sound insane… but is there a ghost.. Here in the library perhaps?” the expression on her face at his question was all he needed. The cogs of evaluation were churning behind her eyes, and Trenton did not want to wait around for her to evaluate his mental health. 

Quickly apologizing, he broke the eye contact that they shared and just left the building as quickly as he could. 

His car was a safe haven for now, but his animal instincts were in high gear. Clicking the seat belt, he finally decided to close his eyes and lean back, taking in everything that had just transpired. Never in his wildest dreams had he thought that he would come face to face with a ghost, let alone in a place that he knew was not haunted.

Surely during one of the endless visits in his childhood, something would have happened or someone would have said something! Rubbing his face he tried to placate the adrenaline running at full force inside him. Concentrating on his breathing, he help bring his hear back into his chest. 

Unfortunately, he knew then that he would not be able to go home to his small apartment. At least until he checked out the store. At this point, with a full body apparition that just happened to be directing him to a specific place, it would be absurd for him to ignore the obvious signs raining down above him.

Now, parked off of a side street not too far from the address of the small shop, the cynic inside of him wondered if this was all just a coincidence. It was true that he wanted to believe in something larger that was happening-that he was being surreptitiously lead to uncover a truth, possibly one that was too great for him to imagine. The logical side of him, knew though, being special was a yearning for him. Something that he continued to bring into his adulthood.

Coming around the corner, hands forced deep into his pockets, Trenton approached, eyes on the swinging sign coming into view. “A.A. Antiques” was written in a formal serif typeface, a bold gold against black paint. It was not until he came closer, though, that he saw something commanding even more attention

It was enough to stop T where he stood. “Holy Fuck..” He whispered to himself. Taking in the sight before him. 

Just below eye level, there was a plain piece of computer paper taped to the window. In bold black sharpie letters, it read “Come On In, We’re Open”. Police tape fluttered loosely where it had been removed from the door frame, and as Trenton examined it more closely, he was shocked to find something sending him reeling once again. 

Subconsciously reaching out a hand to grab the handle, he had only felt air. Looking down, where there should have been something to grab, there was only melted metal and glass where the door handle should have been. Crouching to look at it closely, T pulled out his smart phone to snap a quick photo before pushing in the door open with his shoulder. 

Inside, an older man greeted him immediately with a warm and inviting voice. The smell of polish and wood matched the weathered floor and exposed brick walls. The gentleman was in the front of what T assumed to be his own store. He had been wiping down impeccably organized glass cases with what looked like expensive antiques arranged deliberately. Trenton could immediately see that there was great care and pride taken in the shop.

Looking around the room, his voice halting a moment before he returned a courteous reply the owner who had addressed him. His problem was now how to bring up the subject of the book and the front door. Or maybe his interest was already obvious?

He had always considered himself confident and self assured, but honestly shit had gotten really weird, and there was no prior reference in his head on how to handle it. 

The old man’s movements were slow and careful as he straightened up from in front of the display. “Can I help you?” He asked, his dark complection reflecting the light of over ten stained glass lamps. Gold glasses stood out against his skin and his crisp button up was ironed to perfection. He was obviously a man of detail.

 

Trenton took a moment to breathe before pitching his name and what he was doing. The stranger’s face seemed excited at the mention of him being a writer and working on a book. Pulling out his notebook, T took the genuine interest to heart. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” He was diving right in.

“Not at all!” The man laughed, easing himself into an antique seat and inviting Trenton to do the same. “As long as I can answer them, I will.” Smiling warmly, he put out his hand, introducing himself as Andrew Ansel. Trenton shook it back with gusto, introducing himself as well. 

“So, first, may I ask what happened out there?” T gestured behind him with his hand, regretting immediately his laze fair tone. He was going to have to work on not being too casual. 

“Oh , that?” Andrew nodded, laughing - albeit sadly at the story being brought to mind. “Damndest thing… When I saw that the handle had completely melted off, I anticipating the worst. After all.. I have some expensive items in here, and it must have taken a real tool of the future to do something like that. I was afraid that everything going to be completely gone. Stolen. Imagine my surprise when I found out there was only one thing missing.”

Trenton almost did not want to hear what was next. If he was being honest with himself, though, he already knew. “It was a really strange small black book. It was already in my father’s collection when he died and I inherited the shop.” Trenton nodded in sadness and Andrew smiled an acceptance. 

“I brought someone in to look at it, just for curiosity's sake. They were a specialist who deals with appraising old hand bound books. Turns out- the evil thing was bound in human skin and inked with blood.” The man’s eyebrows raised as he said this, emphasising that this was not a joke. Trenton’s horror was confirmed. 

“Truth is, it was never for sale. It was made with a human, so it felt wrong to throw away and a waste to bury. I had decided just to keep it around in the shop. You couldn’t even read what it said. Everything was written in what looked like another language.” Trenton could feel in his voice and see on his face that everything the man said he believed to be true. Trenton wrote in quick abbreviations, trying to capture everything.

“Honestly, I’m kind of glad the thing was gone. The only thing is, even the cops had no idea how the melting was done. Apparently there is not a tool that can do something like that. It just doesn’t make sense. We had a 1000$ Tibetan skull sitting right next to it!”

Trenton was transfixed by the the older man. Things just kept piling onto this weird ass story, but now the book had even turned up missing. Was this nothing less than divine intervention in his creative process? Skepticism proving to keep becoming more and mor alluding. 

“So, over the years, did anyone specifically take an interest in the book? Maybe they took it?” Trenton offered, thinking out loud.

“Yeah, that is what the police were saying… but honestly no one really noticed it except for this little old lady who died maybe… oh has to be at least 15 years back-”

“Your fucking joking.” It came out before he could handle himself, and the old man was taken aback. 

“I am most certainly not.”

“That is literally insane because not a few hours ago, a little old lady was at the library, telling me that she had seen that book, but was never allowed to touch it. I just happened to be looking at a photo if it in the microfiche of my book research.”

“Oh My...”

“Yeah, I know...” Trenton explained to him how what the article had said. That the book was found on an occult member who had seemed to have ritualistically committed suicide. 

 

“You might really have something here.. I don’t believe in coincidences...” Putting his hands in a steeple shape, he pressed them to his lips. 

After pausing, obviously deep in thought, Andrew offered Trenton to try and dig up more information. “I know I might have her name and possibly address written down in one of our past records. She would always buy tea or coffee while she browsed. We stopped doing that ages ago, though. If I may have your email address, I will send them to you if they turn up.”

Trenton thanked the man profusely, his research had thus far not hit an obvious dead end. “Let me know if I can do something to repay you. Maybe if I end up finding it, I can return it to you.”

“Oh, no, if you find it, go ahead and burn it. It was something that I could never bring myself to do.”

And with that, Trenton promised to let the man know what happened.

\----------

Ricky lay on the futon in his front room, his Grandmother’s urn balanced on his chest while he wore her bathrobe. In some way he hoped to in some way summon her.

Now, presumably without a job, it was going to be an extra two weeks until payday. “It doesn’t surprise me, but ya’ would think that there would be a touch of allegiance there. Apparently not.” Ricky spoke out loud, letting his voice at least be heard, even if it was to a dead woman. “I feel like such an idiot.”

A large white candle sat burning on the repurposed tv dinner tray next to him. The candle has already burned down half way. Ricky had gotten sick of staring at the darkness.

The police had ended up questioning him for hours. Apparently when they had tried to call Amanda, she was not at home. Dispatching an officer to the scene, there was no evidence of a car in the driveway - let alone evidence of someone being or returning home. She had turned tail and ran.

Stroking the cool urn of his grandmother, Ricky talked to her outloud, hoping to find some comfort in it. “I honestly have no idea of what I am supposed to do.” He was exhausted. Ricky had not slept anywhere near well months, and after getting knocked out and robbed, his brain could not compute any more than ‘I am fucking tired’. Logically he knew that he had to find another job, and get some sleep but he was already immensely overwhelmed. 

One of the officers had given him a ride home, his ride latched on to the cruiser’s bike rack. He while riding silently in the car, Ricky hoped that he would be able to fall asleep as soon as he lay down on the futon, but now he could not let his mind fall into sleep.

Instead he lay there, brooding. In his loneliness, he imagined what his grandmother would say. He pictured her, smoking a cigarette like she would in the kitchen across the room. “Just fuck em, Rick. You can find someplace else.”

For some reason it was not as helpful as he would have liked it to be.

In reality, he had no idea what she would have said about the dreams, or about being unwittingly made into an accomplice via his own stupidity for a drug crime. Her only advice to him really had been an old school mentality of striking them back, but Ricky never wanted to be involved in a fight. Life was complicated enough. 

Watching the light travel across the ceiling, Ricky mulled over his reality, and decided that he indeed needed to find some way of employment tomorrow.. but for now, he lay surrounded by things that reminded him of her. After closing his eyes briefly, his exhaustion finally let him fall into a light sleep.

\----------

This time, the dreaming was not immediate, but instead came upon him slowly, like a dark tide coming in.

He was sitting in an empty room again, the dark mist enveloping him as he sat in the same oak chair. The old man was there again, the grey disks before his eyes mesmerized Ricky. The tension was thick, but neither one of them spoke. 

He could not tell if the time was moving or stopped. Ricky seemed to be stuck in an infinite loop, one where time was just the same second over and over again.

After what felt like eons, The older man stood. He wore the mist like it was clothing, draping over his frail and hunched form. Leaning over Ricky, the man’s face drew closer until his mouth was right next to his ear. Rick could not move, and the freezing air that came from the figure left Ricky numb.   
You’re ready.” was all he said.

\----------

Awaking with a start- Ricky's body was ice cold despite the daylight he could feel falling on top of him. He could tell that he was laying on something soft, textured and slightly wet because his clothes had soaked through from how long he had been asleep.

Slowly opening his eyes, Ricky saw that the sun was not yet at its peak, but the night had left a few hours ago. Laying tucked behind some abandoned furniture and almost completely concealed by unruly, reedy grass. His feet ached and his arms felt overwhelmingly itchy. It was growing to such a point that it was ungodly uncomfortable- forcing him awake.

Lurching his body into an upright position, Ricky moaned at the aching he felt throughout his chest. What the hell had happened? Was this some sort of fresh new hell that rained down upon him?

Leaning against the brick wall that towered over the bit of grass he had found himself in, he tried to gather up all the pieces inside his mind. Forcing himself to look at what was ailing his skin. Inspecting them, Ricky was alarmed to find the skin of his forearms red and peeling. Like an old sunburn. 

Rubbing the patches of irritated redness helped ease the discomfort, and the dead layers fell to the earthen ground below. This must be a byproduct of his mind,he told himself, despite the overwhelming sense that he was losing control. Even at the cellular level of his body, things were acting on their own. How was it even possible?

Searching his memory banks, Ricky tried to frantically recall anything that could even remotely equate to this situation. 

He kept coming up blank.

Looking around, he could not tell immediately where he was, or even how far it was to home. Tucked away here on a back street, things started to look the same amongst the old buildings. He could faintly hear people meandering on by, but Ricky knew better than to call out for help to a stranger.

Forcing his himself to stand-up, he could feel the walking taking a tole. His body needed to rest. Like, sure, it had never been anywhere near normal, but at the rate it was accelerating, he had no idea what would come next.

Giving himself a few moments to breathe, Ricky leaned his head against the wall and let his eyes wander, taking in everything around him, including the small, conspicuous bundle placed neatly maybe a foot away. 

It was wrapped in what looked like a black leather cloth, which in and of itself wasn’t strange. Instead it was the way that it was placed on top of a pile of broken furniture wood.. It was not something that could have been here for any long amount of time. Almost like it was meant for him.

Ricky swallowed and instantly felt sick, but it was his desperation that let curiosity take over. It felt like, in some way, the parcel was meant for him.

Internally wrestling with himself, Ricky slowly took a few steps toward the inky black item. In the end he only hesitated for a moment before gently, uncovering the folds to see what was protected inside.

Ricky was unsettled to find black leather beneath the folds he held. The texture was distinctly organic, definitely leather of some sort. When considering what type, though, he gave pause. Ricky had never seen something like this. Placing an index finger on the surface of the book, he drug his index finger down what little of it was revealed. A shiver barreled down his spine.

Instinctively he looked around, feeling like he was being watched. Instead, all around him were abandoned buildings packed tightly together. Inside one of the green spaces where nature had been running rampant, the plants concealed his actions. 

Returning the cloth to cover the leather once again, Ricky tucked the book underneath the worn bathrobe that he still wore. Only a split second hesitation made him pause, and that was only to briefly think about leaving it, or burning it. Anything to avoid taking it home.

Instead, he ended up shrugging these off as extreme thoughts to have for such a relatively small item. In fact, the more he thought about it, Ricky was glad to have something to distract him from walking the sidewalk, looking for work.

Letting himself follow the sounds of traffic to locate the closest street. Ricky hoped that by knowing what the thoroughfare looked like beyond the green space, he would be able to orient himself. In his heart, he had a small amount of hope that this item was the first clue to the shitstorm that was his life… that maybe the man in his dreams had somehow caused the book’s.. After all, he said he was ready. Maybe everything was connected.


End file.
